


The Apocalypse

by kronette



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M, Horsemen, Knifeplay, M/M, Non-Consensual Violence, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:59:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And of Methos' 2500 years, the Horsemen had been his life for over one thousand. A swell of pride filled his chest as he remembered the destruction and devastation they had wreaked across the world. He knew no other life; could remember no other. They were his brothers in every sense of the word. They knew each other's thoughts; they knew each other's habits. They fought with each other and at each other's sides. They were closer than any tribe; closer than any mortal family. They were closer than blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> This is an ancient story I’ve had on my hard drive since – 7/21/2001. It was essentially complete, but I never posted it for some reason. I may have thought it was too dark (it is Kronos/Methos, after all), and, by 2001, I was mostly out of Highlander fandom.

250 BCE, near Carthage on the African continent

The four immortals pressed their horses harder, forcing them to overtake the caravan. Kronos and his three brothers had stumbled upon the caravan the day before and had been pursuing it ever since. Soldiers, four or five rows deep, traveled alongside the carts bursting with trade goods. The soldier’s numbers dwindled as the four Horsemen gained ground. The thrill of the chase was firing Kronos' blood; he had not felt its equal in years. Each horrified scream excited him. Each dead body sent a shiver of power through him. Their raids had been too tame lately; this, the hunt, was what he lived for.

He kept his head low as he spurred his mare onward. Arrows flew about him, but only one had found its mark. It pierced his shoulder, but he pulled it out with a mere grunt. The lingering minor pain only added to his enjoyment.

The well-armed soldiers defended the caravan as well as they could, but they traveled far more heavily than the Horsemen. The soldiers could not leave the carts unprotected, but the four immortals had split up more than once, attacking from different sides and divided the soldiers' attentions. The prize would be sweet indeed, if the hired protection the caravan employed was any indication.

Silas shouted angrily and Kronos turned to see an arrow lodged in the big man’s chest. With a nod to him, Methos fell back to tend to Silas. The soldiers had hurt two of them, and now, Kronos was well and truly ready to begin the blood sport. With a mighty yell, he swung his sword and knocked one of the soldiers to the ground. Another appeared beside him, and after a brief struggle, he, too, slipped from his saddle, dead. With a twirl of his sword, Kronos beheaded the next attacker, silently disappointed that he hadn't been immortal. A good quickening would have made this a truly perfect day.

He heard Silas and Methos ride up fast, ready to rejoin the fight. Caspian nodded across the road, and as one, the Horsemen charged the remaining defenders.

Caspian rode up on the other side of the caravan and hacked at the soldiers. Kronos spared a glance back to make sure Methos and Silas were in position, then he advanced up to the main cart. Soldiers attempted to hold him back, but he had been doing this for close to one thousand years; did these puny mortals really think they could defeat him? With a deep-throated laugh, he cut them down and turned again to the main cart.

"Halt, or we shall kill everyone!" he yelled to the driver. That was a well-timed lie: everyone would die as soon as they managed to stop them.

The frightened driver whipped the horses into a faster gallop. Kronos heard Caspian's laugh and turned in time to see his brother hop onto the cart. Caspian tore the man asunder, blood bubbling from the gaping chest wound before the man was dumped off the cart. Kronos turned his attentions back to the remaining soldiers; Caspian would stop the cart and all would be finished soon.

For all their weaponry and armor, the soldiers were hardly worthy of their efforts. They had good strategies, but they lacked the ability to change their attack plan; an advantage the Horsemen had in abundance. Kronos abruptly turned his horse to meet two soldiers head-on. Three quick swings of his sword, and two dead soldiers fell to the ground. He only paused a moment before he turned back to the line of carts.

The terrified shrieks were dying down and the carts were now stopped. Silas and Caspian were ordering their captives onto the roadway. A few women were mixed in with the normal citizens and the defenders. Kronos surveyed all with the eyes of a man who loved wielding the power of life and death. 

With a flick of his hand, Methos indicated that they should all circle the remaining people. The captives were herded up, and smiles came over the Horsemen's faces at the same moment the people realized their fates. Their victims’ cries mingled with their victory shouts as they trampled the people. Bones snapped under their horses' feet. Blood splashed up from the rent bodies. Kronos' heart was beating wildly in his chest; never had he experienced more of a rush than when he was killing someone. Satisfied that no one remained alive, the Horsemen set about gathering the important goods:  food, jewels and weapons.

Kronos reveled in the power he felt at that moment. He dismounted and surveyed the destruction with a smile. His smile widened as he stepped up to Methos. "Methos; join me at my tent this night and let us celebrate our victory." There was no denying his need; he could feel the sexual energy thrumming through his body. He hungered for the touch of another, and only Methos could truly satisfy him when he was in this mood.

"Not tonight," Methos replied as he brushed by the leader of the Horsemen.

Kronos grabbed his brother's arm and twisted until Methos faced him. "Why not? Would you defy me?"

Methos jerked his arm out of Kronos' grip. "No, I would not. I would _rest_ , brother. The ride today was hard, and I am not up to it." 

His eyes strayed to the junction of Methos' thighs where indeed, Kronos could see the disinterest. It was unusual for any of them not to be sexually aware after a fight such as this. Perhaps something was wrong? He respected Methos' wishes at that thought. "Very well. But soon, Methos," he threatened lightly.

"Soon," Methos echoed as he tossed gathered bags onto his horse, then hauled himself up in back of them. "I will see you back at camp." 

Kronos' eyes narrowed as he watched Methos' horse disappear into the distance, his thoughts dark. It was not the first time Methos had denied him, he remembered. And Methos did have him concerned in that regard. But, not enough to concern himself now. Right now, he had to finish gathering weapons. It was only just past midday, but he wished to be in his tent long before nightfall, a cold goblet of wine in one hand and a warm breast in another.

Even as he gathered items, his thoughts remained with his strategist. He did not like to admit it, but Methos had been right:  the world was changing around them, and they had to continue to change with it to keep up. Even details had changed; things he thought were permanent. Their fierce war paint had been discarded centuries ago. Their bronze weapons had given way to the iron of the day. Their armor had changed as well; growing thicker and heavier as swords were forged stronger and sharper. Only Silas and himself donned the protection now. Caspian found it too restrictive, and Methos wore no armor at all. Kronos liked the weight on his shoulders and the weight of his iron sword in his hand. No longer the short, soft bronze; no, this metal was worthy of a Horseman. Virtually unbreakable, they had been the first to bring it to the African deserts. They had been the first to bring much to the African deserts, as well as a hundred other places. They were the innovators; they were the force of change. They were the beginning as well as the end. With that thought to guide him, he shouted to Caspian and Silas to finish as he pulled himself up on his horse. They had done well this day, though perhaps it had been a hard ride after all. He would see how Methos was doing upon his return to camp.

He shifted on the hard leather of the saddle and grimaced at his fierce erection. Just thinking of Methos caused the fire deep within him to flicker. Actually touching that lean body would cause him to shiver with delight. A soft groan escaped his parted lips; he had not tasted Methos in weeks, and his frustration was growing. He had been waiting for Methos to come to him, but so far, Methos had kept his distance. His brother's excuse had been that things around camp needed his attention first. Slaves must be kept in line, horses tended to, and breaking up the increasing fights between Silas and Caspian. He frowned as he tried to recall the last time Methos had done any of those things. Caspian had taken over the discipline of the slaves years ago. Silas had tended the horses since the day he had joined the Horsemen. And, Silas and Caspian knew just how far to push each other before it came to blows. So, what had been keeping Methos from his tent?

Kronos was shaken from his thoughts as he arrived at the stables. He heard Silas and Caspian ride up behind him seconds later. He patted his horse fondly as he dismounted. "Impatient, girl?" he murmured to her as he rubbed her down, then set her to join the others with a sharp pat to her flank.

Upon their return to camp, the Horsemen divided the bounty and retired to their tents. Kronos kept his gaze on Methos as his brother stepped into his tent – alone. Methos had looked tired as they fought over who would claim what; his face was drawn and his eyes were unreadable. That was nothing new; Methos was unreadable most of the time. But his brother had been unusually quiet for several days now.

Kronos' partially erect cock rubbed against his thigh as he stood and he winced. Even hours after the raid, his body still sang with the bloodlust. He craved the sex only Methos could provide, and every nerve screamed at him to follow Methos back to his tent and take what was rightfully his. His eyes were locked on Methos' tent, but his feet refused to move. He could picture Methos inside as his brother stripped off the gray tunic, exposing the hard chest and sleek muscles. He caught his moan before it could escape.

Methos had said he was tired, and he would respect his brother's wishes. He grabbed some meat from the fire and stormed back to his own tent. He shoved his personal slave outside with orders to leave him alone for the rest of the night. She scampered away without a backwards glance. He didn't care; he wasn't in the mood for a soft body.

He flung himself down onto his pallet and stared up at the underside of his tent. He ripped into the hot meat, chewing vigorously as his thoughts raced. Why was it that he could get a reaction out of Silas with just a suggestion? And Caspian; all he had to do was wave a knife at the man, and he was ready to cum. But, Methos? Not Methos. No, Methos came at their sex as he did everything else: calm, cool, efficient. Anything that Kronos wanted, he had to ask for. Methos let him assume nothing, and it honed their skills until they practically were one mind. They anticipated what the other wanted – no, _needed_ , and acted on that need before the other could voice it. The perfect sexual partner, that was what he had in Methos, even if Methos had rarely given him the satisfaction of a smile, a sigh, a scream, or even a kind word. That was not the problem; Methos had always been less than vocally responsive, but he had _wanted_ to have sex with him. Nothing short of a death wound would have kept Methos from his tent. Methos' disinterest in sex lately had him concerned. Had something happened to him? Why wouldn't Methos have told him if anything were wrong? Surely, they had no secrets from each other.

He gasped as his hand tightened around his cock. He hadn't realized his hand had stole down inside his pants. Now he held his full erection in his greasy hands and his thoughts scattered. Feeling flooded his body: the bite of his nails at the tip of his cock, the soft rasp of his own breath, the blood pounding through his veins. His hands started to move.

He closed his eyes and could see the dark top of Methos' head bobbing between his legs. He groaned softly as his grip tightened, imagining Methos' hot, wet mouth sucking him.

How many times had he done this? How many times had he imagined Methos doing this, instead of taking his brother by force? His breath came in harsh gasps as his hand stroked harder along his engorged shaft. Images shifted through his mind: Methos, naked underneath him. Methos, long limbs stretched taunt between leather straps. Methos, impaled on his cock. Methos, gasping for breath. Methos…

"Methos," he rasped weakly as his climax ripped through him, leaving him breathless. As his body relaxed, his thoughts softened toward Methos. Perhaps nothing was wrong. Perhaps it had been his imagination. He would still speak to Methos, but not until tomorrow. After all, Methos had been with him for one thousand years; another day wouldn't kill him. With that thought to keep him company, he drifted to sleep.

~~~~~

Kronos sauntered out of his tent the next morning to oversee activities about camp. He supposed he shouldn't really call it a camp, anymore. What they had was a mini-city. There was a large stable area with horses, sheep, goats, cows and a number of animals from the local region. A stone building stored the food they raided. A stream to the west provided fresh water. Slaves were in abundance, enough to cover every aspect of life – including entertainment. A number of tents were spread over a wide area, though a cluster of trees to the north provided them with some modest protection. Not that they feared mortals, but it was Methos' idea. And he trusted Methos' judgment, even if he had some strange ideas lately. There was even talk of erecting permanent shelters for each of the immortals.

"Good day, brother," Caspian greeted him with a leer.

"And to you, brother," he replied with a smile. His late night thoughts returned as his gaze slid around camp and he didn't detect his strategist. "Where is Methos?"

"Down at the river," Caspian replied as he wrinkled his nose. "He said he wanted to wash."

"Wash what?" he asked, curious. Washing was for the slaves. Surely, Methos would not do something so beneath him?

"Himself," his brother answered with a jaunty salute. "Perhaps he could use some help?" Caspian suggested.

Despite himself, Kronos could feel the beginnings of desire licking at his resolve. "Perhaps," he mused quietly as he stared toward the stream. "Do not disturb us. Keep the women from doing the washing at the river." 

Caspian's leer grew. "But of course, brother."

With a distracted nod, Kronos walked toward the stream. As he crested the small hill, he inhaled sharply.

Methos stood hip-deep in the still water. Sunlight danced about him, reflected off the surface of the clear water. His eyes raked slowly up Methos' body, admiring the lean, firm muscle. The water barely came to Methos' hips, tantalizingly lapping at his cock. His chest was sparkling from the water droplets and sunlight. Finally, he reached Methos' face. Methos' eyes were locked on his, questioning.

"I only came to see what you were doing. Caspian said you were washing," Kronos called as he moved closer.

Methos moved to a shallower part of the stream, closer to Kronos. His long hair was plastered to his strong back, just brushing the top of his well-rounded ass. "I am washing," Methos confirmed as he sank down to sit on the bottom of the stream, facing him.

"I can see that," Kronos chuckled. He caught the flicker of emotion that crossed Methos' face, and his amusement died away. Any emotion crossing Methos' face would have drawn his attention, but this was no ordinary emotion. Worry? Fear? Pain? "What is wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," Methos replied with a shake of his head.

He stepped to the edge of the stream and knelt by his brother. "Methos, something has been wrong with you for awhile. We have no secrets from each other." He let his voice harden into a soft command. "Tell me." 

Methos turned his head and leveled his hard glare at him. "Nothing is wrong. I am merely tired."

"Last night you were too tired to celebrate with me. Today you are too tired...what is tiring you, my dearest brother? One of the women?" His mind was already working on which one it could be and the quickest way to dispose of her.

Methos was silent for a long moment, staring out over the horizon. His voice was soft as he answered, "Yes, one of the women. She pleases me." Those eyes turned to him, and Kronos blinked in surprise at the expression in them. Was that compassion? Pity? "Do not kill her for my mistake, brother." 

He couldn't help it; he laughed. "What mistake, brother? For pleasing you? That is her duty, not a mistake." His smile stayed with him, even as his voice dropped two octaves. "However, tonight it is my turn. I will see you in my tent, Methos. At sunset." He stood and fought off a wave of dizziness.

Methos nodded and Kronos turned to head back to camp, but remained just out of sensing range to watch his brother. Methos sat for a long time in the water, then he suddenly leaned down and scrubbed his face vigorously. The force Methos used startled Kronos, but he made no move toward his brother. Methos stood and twisted most of the water out of his hair, then reached for his clothes. Kronos returned to camp then, his smile firmly in place. Tonight, he would taste his brother once again.

~~~~

Kronos' thighs were spread high and wide as Methos pounded into his exhausted body. His hands slid quickly over Methos' sweat-slick chest, to wrap in his hair and pull him down. He latched his mouth onto Methos', wincing as Methos' cock shifted angles inside of him. His thighs burned from the strain, but every nerve was alive with the hint of pain. It was exquisite. _Methos_ was exquisite.

He thrust his tongue in time to Methos' thrusts within his body, until he could feel the climax building within himself for the fourth time that night. He was breathing rapidly; dizzy with the lack of air and the image of Methos above him, hair sticking to his neck and chest, eyes closed in fierce concentration. Lips now parted, short gasps of breath escaping from between them as Methos rode him harder, drove deeper, forced his body to bend unnaturally. With a deep groan, Methos stilled inside of him, his head falling forward to touch his chest. Another groan was pulled from Methos as his hips continued to rock, his orgasm strong within him. Growling, Kronos started to move beneath Methos, his own cock ready to burst. It rubbed against Methos' stomach once, twice, then with a strangled cry, his orgasm exploded behind his eyes.

He felt consciousness returning slowly. He kept his eyes closed as he felt the heavy weight of Methos on his chest, and Methos' lips moving gently against his neck. They were covered in sweat and sex and he had never been more content. He thought to say something, but his mouth refused to work. Sex with Methos was exhausting, and he was thoroughly exhausted. Talking to Methos could wait until morning. He wrapped his arms around the slender form of his lover and was asleep in seconds.

~~~~

Silas' great booming laughter startled Kronos awake. "Methos?" he queried, but he could already sense that his brother was not there. But he had not been gone long; their wild night of sex had coated his body in fluids, and some were still wet. He yelled for a slave, and waited patiently while she scrubbed him clean. When she was done, he kissed her and swatted her ass before he left his tent.

Silas and two of the slaves were sitting around the fire and it looked as if he were telling a story. At Kronos' laughter, Silas looked up.

"Brother! Join me. You tell this story better than me." 

"Not just now, Silas. I have some things to attend to." He smiled at the largest of the Horsemen. "And of us all, you tell the story best."

"Thank you, brother," Silas replied softly, his eyes wide. It was nice that Silas could still be surprised, even after a thousand years together.

"Do not leave out the part about me taking on six soldiers at once," he reminded Silas with a smile, then bid his leave. He wandered around camp, just checking that things were as they should be.

He paused at the stables and coaxed his horse to him. His thoughts drifted back to the day before. As Methos had predicted, the caravan had indeed been carrying something of worth: a strongbox of jewels. They had little use for them, though they would bring good trade at the cities. He frowned as he rubbed his mare's nose. He didn't like trading. What he wanted, he _took_. But Methos had convinced him that when certain things were scarce, it was best to travel to the cities and make trade. It had worked so far. And, he admitted to no one but himself, he enjoyed going to the cities. The noise, entertainment, wine and song. Some were the same things he could get in camp, only offered for a price. Rarely had it been worth the price...but sometimes a willing partner was better than forced. Sometimes. Most of the time, he relished the struggle. After all, he had been a warrior for over 2500 years. Old habits died hard.

And of his 2500 years, the Horsemen had been his life for over one thousand. A swell of pride filled his chest as he remembered the destruction and devastation they had wreaked across the world. He knew no other life; could remember no other. They were his brothers in every sense of the word. They knew each other's thoughts; they knew each other's habits. They fought with each other and at each other's sides. They were closer than any tribe; closer than any mortal family. They were closer than blood.

His thoughts shifted to Methos and his odd behavior. It was worrying him more than it should. True, sex last night had been as it had always been – rough, fast and hot – but something seemed to be missing. Maybe it was that slave Methos had mentioned? Had his brother grown attached again? He immediately rejected that idea. No, Methos would not be so foolish as to tell him of a woman if she meant anything to him at all. Then again, knowing his brother, she might mean more to Methos than he was letting on. Methos was almost as good a manipulator as himself, and they both knew it.

But Kronos was better. He had proven it time and again. So which was it? He had seen inklings of this same behavior within Methos when he had been with that Immortal bitch, and he had assumed she wasn't important. Belatedly, possibly too late, he had realized his error. She had been more than important; she had been a threat to their very existence. She had tempted Methos; dragged him away from his brothers. But he had saved Methos before he was lost to her. Yes, he knew Methos had felt something for Cassandra. He had put a stop to those feelings before they could turn traitorous. Methos belonged to the Horsemen, and the sooner everyone around the Horsemen knew it, the better.

He was startled out of his thoughts by shouting. He turned and watched idly as Silas and Caspian fought briefly over a slave, and a tiny smile formed on his lips. Silas won, much to Caspian's disappointment. Caspian grabbed two other women and disappeared into his tent. A grinning Silas pulled his prize to his tent. At least some things never changed; that was a comfort. The smile faded as his thoughts returned to Cassandra. 

He didn't really mind that she had escaped. Her presence would have only served to tempt Methos further. With her out of the way, their lives could return to normal. He frowned as he remembered the months after her departure. Even after Cassandra was gone, Methos had remained withdrawn from camp activity. He planned their raids, but did nothing beyond that.

Methos rode off by himself instead of sharing stories with the others around the campfire. He took meals in his tent instead of with his brothers. Kronos should have realized something was wrong, but he trusted his brother; he knew Methos would never betray them.

A thought struck him, and he growled low as he considered the implications. Maybe there was a different kind of betrayal at work. Maybe a more intimate kind of betrayal. He knew Methos' body, inside and out. He had taken, and been taken, by it enough times over the centuries to feel like Methos' body was an extension of his own. Last night, his own need had overpowered everything else, but even so, Methos' body had seemed like a stranger's. The lines and angles of Methos' body were the same, but their set; their _feel_ , was different. Perhaps there was something to this slave Methos mentioned. If that were true, he would find out now and deal with her himself. Giving his horse one final pat, he returned to camp.

"Well, brother," Kronos announced with a smile as he slipped inside Methos' tent. "Did you enjoy last night as much as I did?"

"Of course," Methos replied, though he did not glance up from the scroll he was writing on.

"Was it equal to what your woman does for you?" he asked carefully.

At that, Methos glanced up with a puzzled frown. "What woman?"

"The one who pleases you so," he reminded his brother quietly.

Methos' face froze, and he grew suspicious. Then, Methos' face softened into a small smile. "She cannot please me the way you do, Kronos," Methos answered quietly.

He couldn't stop the satisfied smirk that lifted the corner of his mouth. That minor worry was put to rest. Now he could go on to other things.

"What is that you are doing?" he asked as he stepped closer. Methos had tried to teach him writing, but he didn't have the patience for it. Oh, he could pick out a word or two, but speaking different languages was more important to him. There were more ways to terrorize victims if you could speak their language.

"Nothing. Just writing." Methos' hand – not a warriors' hand, but enough blood had been shed by it to not matter – continued to move up and down the page.

"What about?"

The quill was flung to the tabletop as Methos stood and turned his back to him. "I said it was nothing."

"It must be something, or you would not be so upset," he calmly informed his brother. He moved quickly to stand directly behind Methos, letting his breath caress over the strong shoulders. "Tell me." 

Methos' shoulders tensed as his soft baritone asked, "Must you know everything?" 

He chuckled. "We share everything, Methos. We always have, and we always will. There are no secrets between us. Surely you know that."

The tenseness left the shoulders, and when Methos turned to face him, it was the old Methos staring back at him. "We share everything," he repeated.

He nodded slowly as he held Methos' gaze: hard and sharp, cutting right through him. "Yes."

Methos turned to the table and his fingers just touched the scroll lying on it. "It is a tale. The one Silas tells. I am writing it down so that it is never forgotten." 

He frowned in puzzlement. "How can it be forgotten when Silas tells it daily?" 

Methos caught and held his gaze again, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He had never seen that look in Methos' eyes before. It was like looking into a stranger's face. "I write it down for the day Silas is not here to tell it." 

His hand was around Methos' throat before the last word escaped his lips. He growled, "You will never say such things to me again. We are the end of time, Methos. We were here when the world started, and we will be here when the world ends. We will _be_ the end of the world." His grip loosened and his voice softened a bit. "You will say nothing of this to Silas," he commanded.

Methos was silent for a long minute, studying him. Then he whispered, "Yes, Kronos."

"Good." He shoved Methos away from him and left the tent, shaken. Never had they talked about one of them losing their head. No man or Immortal had won a challenge against them. Together, they had survived for 10,000 years. Methos was three thousand, just a few centuries older than himself. How could he speak of such things? Anger skittered along his nerve endings, and he felt the need for action. He saddled his mare and rode, not caring which direction she went. As long as he was moving, he didn't care.

~~~~

The ride had settled his nerves, but not his mind. He had gone over every scrap of information, every bit of conversation he and Methos had ever had, trying to figure out what was wrong with him. Never had Methos spoken in such a way. To even _suggest_ one of them lose their head! Was Methos himself thinking of betrayal? No, he was too fond of Silas. Besides, Methos was writing down Silas' tale; surely that meant he feared that someone else would take Silas' head? It was true that Silas was not the smartest or the bravest, but he was the strongest. And the strongest survived. Silas was nearly fifteen hundred years old; he was strong enough.

No, just the fact that Methos felt it necessary to do this was what unsettled him. In the past, Methos had the uncanny ability to predict when world changes would come into play. Was this another such time? Was another world change upon them? His blood turned cold in his veins. Why would it necessitate writing down Silas' tales? Or was Methos writing down all their tales? What did he see that no one else did? Was their own destruction on the horizon?

" _Stop!_ " he shouted to the wind. His mare trembled beneath him, and he steadied her with a soothing pat. He ordered his mind to stop the wild speculations. He would ask Methos why he did this, and he would have an answer. He rode up to Methos' tent and dismounted.

He threw the tent flap aside and growled, "Methos, I must know something."

Startled, Methos set down the quill. "Yes, brother?"

He pointed to the scroll. "Why do you do this?"

Methos looked at the scroll, then up at him, confused. "I told you, in case..."

"No," he snapped. "I want to know why you do this."

The corners of Methos' mouth lifted minutely. "If we are to live forever and have glorious new battles to tell tales about, will we not forget the older battles?" 

He thought about this. The Immortal memory was a wondrous thing, remembering things that most mortals could not. But even they had limitations. Kronos' own memory of his first death was growing weaker as the years went on. He started to smile as he understood. Yes, Methos was a great thinker as well as a fine strategist. Now their tales would be as immortal as they were. He glanced up to Methos, who was smiling as well. Not the usual lift of his mouth; no, this was a genuine smile that spread from ear to ear. As Kronos saw it, he burst out laughing. "Methos, my dearest brother. What would I do without you?"

Methos only tilted his head in acknowledgment, then resumed his writing.

Kronos left Methos to his scrolls, more settled than he had been in weeks. The strange feelings he had been getting from Methos vanished now that he knew what had Methos worried. He feared the Horsemen's earlier days would be forgotten! There was no harm in that. Trust his brother to think up new ways for them to be immortal. He had worried for nothing. There was no betrayal at work. Methos wanted to preserve their legacy.

"Who am I to deny my brother?" he murmured to himself as he wandered back to the center of camp.

~~~~

Things fell back into their normal routine after his conversation with Methos. Kronos' time was caught up in making repairs on the tents and fences holding the animals. Methos kept to himself, but now that Kronos knew what he was doing, he left him to his own devices. If Methos wanted to spend his nights writing tales, so be it. He would not challenge his brother over that.

Over the next few weeks, they continued to either run into travelers or found villages to raid. Regardless of whether they found something or not, they always had a supply of food and jewels on hand. Methos' careful planning had made sure that they never wanted for anything.

Methos' planning. Kronos settled himself in front of the fire with a slave on each arm and thought about Methos' plans. No longer did they take great risks or invade the large city-states. The raids were sufficient for what they needed – and wasn't that the important thing? Even so, he wondered at the change in Methos. He had thought everything was answered when he discovered Methos' little secret weeks ago. But he still sensed something strange from his brother. Could Methos have lost his taste for the hunt? He would make a point to watch Methos carefully at their next raid.

Just then, his head lifted as he felt an approaching immortal. He shoved the women aside and he rose to his feet just in time to see Caspian ride over the hill at a full gallop toward camp. He reined in his mount to announce there was a small caravan heading down the road to the city. With anticipation flooding his body, Kronos ordered the horses saddled. They organized quickly and were on their horses within minutes. They caught up to the caravan and made short work of the leaders. They chased the rest of the people around, enjoying the hunt. Kronos himself ran down four men, all who fought bravely. Too soon though, all were dead. The Horsemen dismounted and riffled through the carts and bags, looking for bounty.

Kronos was pleased at how the raid had gone. Methos had killed just as many people as he, even if he didn't smile as he did it. Seeking out his brother, he caught sight of Methos walking among the dead and thought of a plan to get him to smile. He called out, "Methos! Are you ravaging the dead? I did not know you had it in you!" Caspian sneered at him, and he grinned back. He knew Methos had never taken a liking to that sort of thing. It was just the sort of statement that demanded a verbal retort.

Nothing came. Not a word. Not a glance.

Methos continued to turn over bodies with his sword to check for signs of life. Apparently satisfied no one was alive, he began gathering the gold and foodstuffs. Kronos watched as Methos tossed two packs onto his horse, climbed on the horse's back, and rode back to camp. During the entire raid, he had not spoken.  

Kronos stared after his brother, puzzled. Was Methos upset at how things had turned out? The raid had gone well; nothing had gone wrong. Had one of the women appealed to him? They had no need for more slaves, but new women were always appreciated. Next time, he would check before killing them all. They should all get to choose who lived and who died. If they shared everything, they should share that as well. But, there was nothing he could do about it now; they were all dead. With a shrug, he continued to gather important items, then returned to camp.

They went a few more days without a raid, until the next opportunity came. A small village to their south had built up their resources again after they had raided it the last time. Now they were ready for another invasion. As they rode into view, the villagers scattered, crying for help and trying to find something to defend themselves with – to no avail. The Horsemen rode swiftly, cutting down half the villagers within minutes. Kronos reared his horse, looking up just as Methos raised his sword to kill an old man, then turned, leaving him alive. What was this? Mercy? For a _mortal_?

He immediately yelled out, "Leaving the weak men for me to kill? How generous, brother!" He spurred his mare into a full gallop, covering the short distance in seconds. He sliced downward and cut the man's throat. No one remained alive unless taken back to camp: that had been their unspoken rule for one thousand years. Had Methos felt pity for this man? Pity was weakness, and he did not allow weakness in his camp. He kept his eyes on Methos as his brother impassively watched the man die. He witnessed no emotion from Methos at all. That, at least, calmed him. He could just as easily have killed a horse or a woman; it mattered not to Methos. Nothing deserved mercy or pity. He aligned his horse next to Methos', a challenge in his eyes. He hissed, "Or was he for you to take back to your tent?" 

Nothing. Not even a glare. Methos just calmly turned his horse and continued killing the remaining villagers. Kronos growled in frustration. What was this? Had Methos lost his ability to speak all of a sudden? He rode up next to Methos and repeated, "I asked, was he to take back to your tent?" 

Methos turned to him with a blank stare. "No, brother. I had no use for him."

"Then why did you not kill him?" he asked.

Methos was silent a moment, looking over to where the man lay dead. "He appeared to be the village elder. I wanted him to see the destruction of his village before he died." Methos looked to him then. "It would have shattered his spirit, brother."

Once again, Methos settled his nerves with an explanation. A slow smile spread across his face. "Very good, brother. I knew it was something glorious. I do love how your mind works." 

Methos acknowledged this with a small tilt of his head, then they split up to take care of the remaining villagers and loot the houses.

~~~~~

One bright, clear morning a few weeks later, Methos and Caspian announced they were going hunting. A herd of gazelle had passed by the night before and Methos thought they were still close enough that they could get some fresh meat. Kronos didn't try to hide his smirk as Caspian grimaced at the bow and arrows.

"Not to your liking, Caspian?" he called.

"No. I would rather run them down on horseback," Caspian replied as he swung up on his horse.

"It is easier to hit them with an arrow," Methos patiently explained. "There is no chance of a stampede that way."

"But where is the _fun_ in that?" Caspian argued.

Kronos stepped up to Caspian's horse and rubbed his nose. "Now, Caspian. If you desire fresh meat, you would do well to listen to Methos. Running down a gazelle takes a lot of time and energy. You want to be back by nightfall, do you not?" 

Caspian grunted in answer, then kicked his horse to a gallop. With a shrug, Methos followed him. Kronos chuckled after them both, then went back to his repairs on the stables.

At mid-day, both Kronos and Silas raised their heads to the sky as a quickening filled the air. Cold fear gripped Kronos' heart. Was this the change Methos had predicted? Was it Methos’ own fate that was questioned? He was in the middle of mounting his horse to chase after his brothers when Caspian came over a sand dune. A dead and bloodied - but head still intact - Methos was slung like a sack in front of him.

"What happened?" Kronos demanded as he dismounted and ran over to them.

Caspian explained, "We had just spotted the herd and were about to shoot into it when we felt another Immortal. He chose to challenge Methos. The fight was going well, then something happened. I could not see exactly what, but I think Methos stumbled. He almost lost his arm defending his head." 

Kronos had stepped closer as Caspian talked, fascinated at the blood flowing in a steady stream from Methos' shoulder to the ground. "How did he survive this?" he whispered.

"I took the fool's head," Caspian declared proudly.

"You interfered?" Kronos' anger was plain. "You went against the rules!"

Caspian waved at the dead Immortal in front of him. "Would you rather he lost his head?" he snarled. "Because that is what would have happened." 

Kronos was torn between his fear at losing Methos and his anger at Caspian. "That does not excuse it," he snapped. He absently stroked Methos' blood-matted hair, then looked up at Caspian. His voice dropped to a rough whisper that only Caspian would hear. "But, I thank you." He shoved his mixed thoughts aside and took charge. "Help me get him to his tent. Careful of his arm." 

Once he and Caspian had Methos settled in his tent, he ordered slaves to clean Methos as best they could. As they undressed his brother, Kronos saw just how badly Methos had been hurt. His shoulder was laid open to the bone, from his neck, down his arm, to his elbow. It was still bleeding steadily, so he called for one of the women who claimed to be a Healer. He watched her carefully as she dressed the wound with a poultice of some kind. Not once did she question that her patient was dead; she obeyed without question. She fussed over some minor chest wounds until Kronos barked at her to leave him alone. She scampered out of the tent without a backwards glance.

Now that he was alone with Methos, he didn't know what to do. His gaze slid around Methos' tent; he had not taken the time recently to really see what it held. A few trinkets from their raids, spanning centuries: masks, goblets and a few gold pieces. They kept the bulk of their gold in caves scattered throughout the world, but each withheld something that had personal value. He fingered the leather strap around his neck with a fond smile. A single, uncut ruby hung from the leather thong. He had taken it off a maiden's headdress as she begged for the life of her betrothed. While he raped her, Caspian had fucked her husband-to-be. Fitting, he supposed, that he now wore the ruby from her, while Caspian – well, Caspian had taken something much more personal as a token. He didn't want to think too much what his enthusiastic brother had done with that part of the man's anatomy.

"I doubt if you write that tale down," he chuckled at Methos' still prone body. He studied the death-pale face of his brother. What tales _was_ Methos writing down? Was he faithfully recording all their glorious victories? All the villages they had destroyed? All the people they had killed? Was he writing down their stories from the past few years as well? Not much glory in those, he mused with a frown. The recent years had been lean, with far fewer raids than they used to have. Times necessitated different strategies, and Methos had been more than capable of adjusting. It took longer for Silas and Caspian to understand, but in time, they too had seen the wisdom of Methos' choices.

Unable to contain his curiosity, he looked around the tent for Methos' scrolls. He discovered them in a small chest tucked away under Methos' bed. He half-heartedly attempted to read them, but could only make out a few words here and there. They did appear to talk about battles, that much he could tell. A few had maps and rough drawings; Methos had captured his likeness, as well as Silas and Caspian, rather well. He sifted through the other scrolls, but could find no drawings of Methos. Odd. But, Methos was odd. After all, who would spend their nights writing when there were women to keep you warm? He pushed the chest back under the bed with a disgusted grunt.

"I do not know what you see in this writing. Languages, I can understand." He chuckled. "Together, you and I learned so much over the years. How to tempt someone, how to tease, how to threaten and inflict terror. Important things." He looked again to the chest and sighed. "Maybe there is something to this writing, after all. When you are healed, perhaps you could teach me." He chuckled again. "That will surely test your patience."

He ran out of things to say, so fell silent. He wasn't sure how long Methos would remain dead, so he decided to ride out to where the challenge had taken place. Maybe there would be a clue as to who had dared challenge one of the Horsemen. "I will return, my brother," he whispered as he left Methos' tent.

~~~~

When Kronos returned near sunset, he went immediately to Methos' tent. He had not found anything of consequence, as Caspian had already burned the body. The sword was Caspian's to keep as was his right, but it revealed nothing. He checked Methos' wounds, and noted with pleasure that they were nearly healed. Minutes later, Methos awoke with a great gasp.

"Welcome back, brother."

Methos stared wide-eyed at his surroundings, a confused light shining from them. Kronos saw Methos wince as he swallowed, and went to pour a cup of water. He helped Methos raise himself up, then held the cup as Methos drank from it greedily.

"Kronos? What happened?" he rasped.

"You took a challenge."

The light left Methos' eyes and his head fell back. "I should have died." Methos turned his face to the tent wall, but not before Kronos saw the flush color his brother's cheeks. He stood and walked to the middle of the tent, careful to keep his back to Methos. He set the now empty cup on the table. He had expected this humiliation from his brother. It wasn't every day a Horseman came near to losing a challenge. A wounded ego would take more time to heal, but he was confident Methos _would_ heal. "Take heart, brother. You did die, for a short time. But now you are awake and your healing is nearly complete." 

"I should have died," Methos repeated with a catch to his voice.

Kronos sat on the edge of the pallet, drawing Methos' attention. He stared hard into his brother's eyes. "You are a survivor, Methos. You would have found a way to beat him. I know you would." 

"You do not understand," Methos raged quietly. He tried to sit up, only succeeding in jarring his still-healing shoulder. He bit his lip, but still a small whimper of pain escaped.

Kronos gently pushed him back down to the pallet, regarding the pale, sweaty face inches from his own. "I will leave you now to rest, brother. You are not well yet. By morning, you will be fully healed. Caspian and I will go after the herd. Silas will tend to you if you need him." 

"I do not need help," Methos replied vehemently.

"I know you do not," he soothed. "But you should give your shoulder time to heal properly. You nearly lost your arm," he reminded his brother gently.

"And my head," Methos added sullenly as he diverted his eyes from Kronos'.

"Yes."

"Leave me, Kronos," Methos begged softly as he once again turned to face the wall.

"Of course, brother. I will see you in the morning." Kronos slipped out of Methos' tent, barely moving the flaps. He ordered that no one see Methos until morning, unless Methos asked for something. His brother needed time to heal, and he would make sure he had it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the days following the challenge, Kronos watched Methos with growing concern. His brother had spent an entire day inside his tent, refusing to join the others. He had again ordered everyone to leave Methos be, unless Methos himself requested something.

Two days after his revival, Methos joined them at the fire for midday meal, but did not speak. He refused to answer any questions about the challenge, and Kronos was becoming very concerned about his dearest brother. Methos was not acting normally. True, his body was healed, but the knowledge that a Horseman had lost a challenge must have been a shock.

When Methos joined them at their next raid, he had remained to the side, not taking part in the killing. When he tried to question Methos about it, his brother had just closed his eyes and turned his head away.

What would it take to get his Methos back? Asking his brother directly had accomplished nothing. But he knew what Methos needed; Methos needed to get his fire back. Methos had lost something very important; he had lost confidence in himself. Being defeated in a challenge must have hurt Methos more than he let on. Maybe all he needed was to get Methos angry. Anger was passion, and if he unleashed that, then he just might get to the other passion, the passion for the hunt, the kill...passion for himself. Without his passion, Methos was no better than the slaves; unresponsive, unfeeling. He _wanted_ that feeling. He vowed to get to the heart of Methos, even if it killed one of them.

~~~~~~

The next day he offered to spar with Methos, who accepted without enthusiasm. They rode to a clearing away from camp to give them plenty of room to maneuver. The second Kronos engaged Methos, he knew something was wrong. Methos was sluggish and slow to respond. He had to pull far too many of his swings to keep from slicing Methos' neck. "Is your arm bothering you, Methos?" he asked with concern.

"No, it is not," Methos snapped as he raised his sword. "Try that again." 

"I think something is bothering you," he observed as Methos blocked his sword more confidently this time. Methos countered, and it was Kronos' turn to quickly block the sword aimed for his throat.

"Nothing is wrong," Methos snarled as he swung around and used a move he had not seen before. Their swords tangled, and somehow, his sword was flipped onto the grass several feet from them. His gaze followed the path his sword had taken; that move was impressive.

"I see there is nothing wrong with your sword work. Where did you learn that?" he asked.

Methos didn't answer his question. "Do you yield?" Methos asked instead as he held the sword to his neck.

He lifted his neck, allowing the sword closer to his skin. "Give me a good reason why I should yield."

"You will lose your head if you do not," Methos replied steadily.

"Is that the only reason?" he asked coyly.

He let his desire for his brother shine through his gaze, and his hopes rose as he saw an answering desire light Methos' eyes. Methos' breathing grew shallow, and the sword was dropped to the grass. Methos grabbed his arms and kissed him fiercely; desperately, as if he would never taste him again. Kronos dug his hands into Methos' hair and forced their mouths tighter, deepening the kiss.

Kronos could not remember how he ended up on the grass, or how his clothes were ripped from his body, but he didn't care. Methos was wild upon him, clawing at his skin, biting and marking his flesh. His mouth was brutal as it assaulted his cock, bringing on a quick and powerful climax. Methos was immediately upon his mouth again, delving in so deep Kronos thought they were surely bound together for life. Methos' fully clothed body on top of his naked one was incredibly arousing, and he felt his cock stir once again.

"I want to taste you," he rasped as Methos finally broke the kiss.

"Not until I have tasted you again, brother," Methos whispered as he once again bit a red trail down his chest to his semi-erect cock.

He wrapped his hands around Methos' hair and forcefully pulled his brother's head back up to his. "I will taste you," he commanded as his lips descended on Methos'. He suckled at Methos' neck until he felt Methos' rock-hard erection against his stomach. Then he slowly released the straining cock with deft fingers. The rest of Methos' clothes were removed quickly, without thought. Then, it was his turn to bite down Methos' chest, leaving a trail of red welts that healed within minutes. He shifted their bodies until his cock was near Methos' face, and Methos' erection was within his mouth's vicinity. He dove onto Methos' cock and sucked hard, using his teeth to draw ragged gasps from his brother. He nearly bit down on the cock in his mouth as Methos' hot mouth surrounded his cock again. They found a rhythm quickly and were soon thrusting against each other frantically. Methos' cock filled his mouth, and he swallowed against it, bringing on Methos' climax. He felt the echoes of pleasure ripple through his own body as Methos' stretched taunt underneath him. Strong sucking at his cock caused his own climax, and he forced his cock down Methos' throat again and again.

He rested his cheek against Methos' thigh as he caught his breath. Methos hadn't been this enthusiastic in years. They rarely had sex out in the open anymore; there was too great a chance of another Immortal catching them off-guard. He pushed himself off Methos' body and rolled over, smiling over at his brother. He leaned over to kiss him, but Methos abruptly jerked back and pulled his tunic on.

He tilted his head curiously as he watched Methos dress. "What is wrong?"

"That was foolish," Methos berated them both.

"Maybe so, but it was pleasurable," he grinned. "Did you not enjoy yourself?" 

"Of course I did!" Methos shouted. "That is not the point."

Kronos pulled on his pants and stood. "Then what is?" 

Methos turned to pick up his sword. "We acted irresponsibly. Someone could have come along and challenged us." 

"We have fought naked before, Methos," he teased. He moved closer to his brother as he continued, "In fact, as I recall, we enjoyed it." He attempted to nuzzle Methos' neck. "Would you care to spar with me now?" he whispered in his brother's ear.

"No, I would not," Methos answered with disgust. He strode over to his horse and was on him before Kronos could blink. "I will see you back at camp."

Kronos stared after his brother's retreating back, more confused than ever. Had their sex affected him that deeply? Methos had only been concerned for their safety. But to be _that_ concerned, just after sex? It was always a possibility. He had found himself fiercely protective of Methos in their early years together, despite Methos' ability to take care of himself. It was just a natural instinct. He shrugged it off. He would take care not to upset Methos further, and see what happened from there. He mounted his horse and returned to camp.

~~~~

Not upsetting Methos proved to be a task beyond Kronos' reach. Nothing was to Methos' satisfaction. The food was too hot; their raids not efficient enough; the women not sturdy enough. Methos no longer offered to share slaves; he picked one for the night and she was his for the week. Then the next week, he chose another. He wore them ragged, ordering them about day and night until they nearly dropped from exhaustion. He cared not whether they were conscious or not when he fucked them, as long as they were warm and soft.

Kronos sat around the fire with Caspian and Silas, enjoying a quiet night. Until Methos stormed up to them and demanded, "Silas, where is Micala?"

Silas looked up, startled. "I do not know, brother."

Methos sank to his haunches and shoved his face inches from Silas'. "I saw her enter your quarters earlier today. Where is she?" 

"I have not seen her since, brother. She is not in your tent?" 

"No, she is not." Methos' suspicious glare slid from Silas to Caspian, to rest finally on Kronos.

"You took her," Methos accused him.

"I did," he replied without hesitation. "She was wounded; if you intended to have her tonight, she had to be looked at."

"I can take care of the bitch myself," Methos snarled. "She is mine to deal with. Do not interfere with my women again." 

Kronos stood slowly, matched by Methos. "She would have been no use to you dead. She will be at your feet tomorrow, Methos. Choose another for the night." 

Methos stepped closer. "I want Micala." 

Kronos also stepped closer, his voice deadly low. "Choose another." 

Methos took a deep breath, then stormed back to his tent. Kronos watched Methos' back as he walked across camp. Arrogant swagger, loose gait, utter confidence. Nothing different there. Methos' mood swings were becoming damn annoying. He threw the remainder of his food into the fire and announced he was going to bed. He stomped off to his own tent, sending murderous thoughts towards Methos' tent.

~~~~~~

Tensions eased after that incident, only because Methos had removed himself from his brothers' sight. Methos remained in his tent, having his woman of the week bring his food to him. He emerged to help with the raids, but that was all. This went on for weeks, until finally, Kronos had had enough. No longer would Methos ignore him. That very night, he threw the tent flaps wide and stormed into Methos' tent.

"Brother." His voice reverberated within his chest; low and deadly.

"Brother," Methos replied calmly. He was holding parchment, and it looked as if he was writing something.

Kronos would allow nothing to distract Methos while he talked to him. He stalked over to Methos and ripped it from his hands. "More stories? Are they more important than me?" he growled as he waved it in the air. He threw it back at Methos, where it landed against his chest.

Methos didn't flinch; didn't make a move to pick it up. "Is there something you wanted?" he asked impatiently.

"Yes," Kronos hissed as he stepped closer. "You. Now."

Not even a flicker of recognition. Methos just stood up and started to untie his belt. Kronos grabbed his shoulders and shook him vigorously. "What has happened, Methos? First, you are content with no one, then you have more women than Caspian in a month. You do not share stories around the fire anymore. You take meals in your tent. You are not part of us anymore. What is it? Have you been bewitched?" he demanded.

Methos' head tilted as if he were contemplating Kronos' words. Maybe, just maybe, he had gotten through to his brother. He searched Methos' face, looking for a sign that Methos had heard him; had understood what he had asked.

Methos blinked slowly, the entire time continuing to undo the fastenings on his clothes. "Nothing is wrong," he replied, his voice a monotone.

Kronos felt his frustration spiraling out of control. He pulled Methos closer until their faces were inches apart. "Do you feel nothing?" he demanded as he kissed his brother fiercely. Methos responded, parting his lips when Kronos' tongue pushed at them, meeting him halfway...but there was no feeling there. Nothing that showed of the times they used to have. He might as well have been kissing one of their conquests. Kronos pulled back, disgusted. "Is that what I am to you now? Just a slave, not worth the effort of more than the fuck? Is that it?"  

"Of course not, brother," Methos replied automatically. His tunic slid to the ground, revealing all of the slender body.

Kronos raked his gaze over Methos' form before he pulled his brother tight to his chest. The ache he felt inside could not be lessened. It had grown over the past months, until it nearly consumed him. He pleaded, "Then _feel_ , brother. Feel me. Let me inside. Give to me some of that passion I know lies inside you..." He started kissing Methos lightly, drawing on all his strength not to shove him to his knees and take him by force.

He pushed Methos' hair back and licked at his throat, something he knew Methos enjoyed. He drew in the scent that was Methos, and growled under his breath. His licks grew more forceful, until he nipped Methos' sun-darkened skin. Methos tasted of salt and sweat, and it set his blood racing. "Methos," he hissed as he raked his nails lightly down Methos' sides.

He began with Methos something that he had never done before...he tried to be gentle. He tried to draw Methos out, to tantalize him, to tease him in all the right places. He used all his control, fighting with himself – with his nature, not to be physically overbearing. It was hard; he never cared to worry about that before. Now...he wanted to.

Kissing and licking at Methos' skin as he worked his way down Methos' body, he shoved his own needs aside. His cock ached, stretched full, but he clamped down on his desire, trying somehow to channel it to Methos, to make him feel it as well. He took one of Methos' hands and placed it to his own cock, guiding their joined hands to stroke it. "See what you do to me, Methos?" he rasped. "I need you, my brother."

He nibbled at Methos' chest, slowly dropping to his knees at Methos' feet. He licked at Methos' abdomen and smiled as his tongue dipped into the belly button. Methos' head fell back, and Kronos felt a sense of triumph flare though him, adding to his desire. His lips brushed Methos' cock, eliciting the response he had been waiting for: a very soft moan escaped Methos' lips. Grinning triumphantly, Kronos took Methos in his mouth, nearly gagging himself in his impatience. Sucking hard, alternating with licks and nibbles, he brought Methos to a quick climax that did little to soften him.

Rising to his feet, Kronos licked a trickle of cum off his lips. "Come, Methos," he whispered as he extended his hand. Drawing Methos close to him, he kissed him fully, letting Methos taste himself on his tongue. He tugged slowly until he got Methos to lie down on the pallet. He quickly stripped off his clothes and settled over Methos' lithe body. Methos' cock was hard between his thighs, and he nearly came just from the feel of it. "Let me inside you," he whispered in Methos' ear as his hands stroked the hard-muscled thighs.

Obediently, Methos' legs parted and his knees rose. Kronos slipped his hands under Methos' ass and parted his cheeks. The familiar feel of that flesh in his hand, the image of Methos under him, it was suddenly too much. He was too impatient and too used to their forceful sex, and he drove deeply inside Methos at the first thrust. He gasped as the hot tightness surrounded him, then felt warm blood coating him. He dimly heard the choked protest from Methos' lips, so intent was he on the sensations flooding his own body. He began to thrust hard, gaining in strength as he felt the healing quickening inside Methos' body. He groaned low, burying his cock deeply inside Methos as he came.

Panting hard, Kronos pushed himself up off Methos. He pulled out of Methos carefully and fell lightly on top of him. Methos' hardness pressed against his abdomen and the need to be taken by Methos nearly consumed him. Another jolt of passion rushed through him, and he straightened Methos' legs until he was lying flat on his back. He straddled Methos' thighs, so he could watch his brother's face as he wrapped his hand around Methos' cock. Methos' eyes were half-closed, though he blinked them closed in time to Kronos' strokes. He lifted himself to his knees and shifted until he could guide himself down onto Methos' cock, crying out in pain as he felt it tear him. He froze, letting the feelings wash over him, drowning in the pain/pleasure. When the pain eased, he started to rock against Methos, relishing the feeling of his brother filling him. He let his head fall back and groaned his pleasure as he raked his nails down Methos' chest. Faster and harder he rocked, his breathing almost out of control. His hand absently went to his once-again straining cock, and he stroked himself in time with his thrusts. Choking out a sob, he climaxed, his body still as he covered Methos' chest with his essence. His head dropped forward as he fought to keep conscious. He felt lightheaded, and a thrumming echoed in his head.

He had felt Methos come a few seconds before he did, and raised himself up to look at his brother's face. He could feel his face fall in surprise and anger. No, he couldn't have. Not after what they had just shared! Methos was breathing hard; sweat streaking down his face...but there was nothing in his eyes. No hint that they were just inside each other's bodies. He might as well have fucked a slave! At least they gave him a good fight and a sense of satisfaction. He was angry, but more surprising to him was the sense of failure. This was his last attempt to pull Methos back to him, and it had failed. He had let things slide too far; he had ignored the signs until it was too late. It was too late to salvage Methos' passion. Something much more serious had been breached. Those thoughts were quickly shut down and he rolled off Methos and dressed with angry jerks of his limbs.

"I guess I do not have to ask how it was for you. Pity; even if you are the most unresponsive person in the world, at least you are still a good fuck. Not many people can say that. Be proud brother; you have found something you are truly good at." Kronos exited Methos' tent and grabbed a woman on the way back to his own tent. She would pay for what Methos had done.

~~~~~

All his plans had failed. Not only was Methos still ignoring him, but now his brother went out of his way to avoid him. They had not had a raid in weeks, and Caspian and Silas were getting restless. So was he...but for a different reason. His thoughts were turning down a dark path, one he didn't think he would ever have to travel. But maybe it was time. Maybe one thousand years was too much.

It was only in recent times that things had gotten to such a desperate point. The world had changed around them. No longer was it theirs to rule. New inventions were making defenses stronger, and armies now commanded half the city-states. Modern armies were much more difficult to battle than the hastily assembled defenses villages of the past had put up. And now that he could think and see clearly, he saw that Methos had no heart left for their plans. Methos had been distancing himself for years now, so subtly that Kronos had missed it. Now it stared him full in the face; all the times he had looked away when Methos had done something unusual. When he had rounded up the parchment during raids and tucked it into his pack. When he started asking that villagers be kept alive, then sold on the open markets. When he suggested that attacking city-states would be counterproductive, and that they should settle for the lesser of bounties in small villages and travelers. Methos had been manipulating him for a long time, and he had refused to see it.

Coming to his decision, he went to Caspian's tent to discuss his plan. Caspian's grin got wider and wider until he finally burst out laughing.

"I wish to help, brother," Caspian growled. "He deserves to be punished more severely!"

"No!" Kronos hissed loudly. "He is mine to deal with. But, it all ends tomorrow. Inform Silas of his part of the plan. I have some more thinking to do tonight." 

"Of course, brother."

~~~~~

The next night, Kronos strode into Methos' tent, his expression dangerous. He didn't even see what Methos was doing; so intent was he on his plan. He stopped before his brother, calmly announcing, "You are going to be tonight's entertainment, Methos."

Methos looked up at him, but didn't say a word. His expression was carefully neutral, dispassionate. Oh, there would be no more emotionless expressions from the tall one. He would see to that. "What? Not even curious as to what kind of entertainment you will be?" he questioned. He folded his arms across his chest in mock contemplation. "Perhaps I will kill you a few times. Find new ways to prolong the agony? I know I am quite good at it, but one can always improve," he remarked casually.

Methos stood up and Kronos began circling him, continuing his monologue. "Then again, there are other forms of entertainment, are there not, Methos? Sex, for instance." He paused, waiting to see the light change – yes. The flicker of recognition in Methos' eyes, alerting him that his brother knew exactly what he was thinking of. He allowed a small smile of triumph as he leaned in and whispered in Methos' ear, "I believe I will have everyone watch as I take you. I bet that is something you have always wanted to try. To know what it is like from the other side."   

Methos remained stock-still, not even blinking. Kronos glanced to Methos' hands, which were clenched so tightly, blood was trickling onto the ground. A reaction, surely, but not where he wanted it – he wanted the acknowledgment and fear in his eyes, not his body.

Kronos' eyes narrowed into thin slits as he snarled, "You will not ignore me this time, Methos." He grabbed at Methos' arm, but Methos jerked back, out of reach.

He smiled dangerously. "And you will not escape, either," he threatened. They began a deadly game of dodge as Methos faked left, then right to get away from him. The blood was pounding through Kronos' body, driving him on. Methos pulled a small dagger, and Kronos laughed. "I always knew you would pull a blade on me, Methos. This will be your only chance." He timed when Methos would go left, then jumped right and caught him in mid spin. Methos' back was against his chest, the dagger against Methos' neck.

Methos struggled against him and a ragged, "No," hissed from between his lips.

"You will no longer defy me," Kronos hissed as he stabbed Methos in the gut.

Methos gasped and went limp in his arms, and Kronos let him fall to the ground in a heap. The wound was tame; his brother would revive in a few minutes. Plenty of time to set things up. He ripped the tunic from Methos, taking some small delight in rending it into scraps of cloth. That done, he turned his attention back to the man. He hunted around Methos' tent until he found a short bit of rope. He flipped Methos onto his back and grabbed Methos' wrists to bind them. Taking firm hold of his tied wrists with one hand, the dagger in the other, he dragged Methos to the center of camp near the blazing fire.

"Come, everyone! It is time for tonight's entertainment!" he shouted, waiting until the camp slaves had assembled. His gaze searched the crowd, but he didn't feel the buzzes strong enough. "Where are my brothers? I would not want them to miss this," he yelled, then saw Silas and Caspian enter the ring around the campfire from opposite sides. "Good," he nodded his approval, finally turning his attention back to the man at his feet.

Methos choked on his first breath. He reached for the wound at his side, and Kronos took note that Methos' hands faltered when he noticed they were tied together. But when Methos' hand came away from the wound, it was clean; the blood had stopped, and it had healed. Too bad; the added sting might have made the show more entertaining. He leveled his gaze at Methos, who stared straight ahead, breathing heavily. He grabbed a handful of Methos' hair and hauled him to his knees, then forced his head back until his neck was exposed. The blade caressed the vulnerable stretch of skin, and he nicked carefully until blood ran in thin trickles down Methos' neck.

Kronos leaned down until he could clearly see Methos' eyes; the firelight dancing in their depths. The color was absent as the pupils had expanded to cover it – fear had finally made an appearance. Too late. Far, far too late was Methos’ concern about Kronos and what his brother planned to do with him.

Kronos lowered his voice so only Methos could hear him while he continued to hold the blade to his brother's neck. "Just think, Methos. With one stroke, I could kill you. Or I could make your existence a living, agonizing, torture. Ever wonder what it would feel like to be beheaded slowly? Ever wonder what would happen if it started to heal while the blade was still cutting? Interesting scenario, is it not?" He lifted the blade higher, cutting into the underside of Methos' jaw. Methos' chest was rising and falling rapidly; fear was turning to panic. It had been over one thousand years since he had seen Methos this scared. The rush was overwhelming. "But not for today."

He removed the blade quickly, so Methos had no time to react. He shoved Methos to the sand, exposing his bare ass to the night air. He dropped his knee onto the small of Methos' back to hold him in place. Methos' knees were shoved tight against his chest and his face was pressed into the sand. Completely vulnerable to anything Kronos did to his blood brother. Oh, what he could do to Methos. But now was not the time. Now, he was impatient for the entertainment to begin. The rush of power and anticipation had made his own cock hard. He released his erection and aligned himself until he was directly behind Methos, just at the puckered entrance.

 _Anticipation_. Ah, yes, the wait. Letting the fear build up, letting the worst scenarios flit through your mind, wondering which was about to befall you. He knew exactly what Methos was thinking, and he loved it. He leaned over the thin body and hissed in Methos' ear, "I know what you were doing all this time, Methos. Getting me angry with you, then turning it around so you could explain everything away with a casual brush of your hands. Well, you did not count on one thing. That I would guess your little plan." With one hand, he pushed apart Methos' ass and forced himself inside, thrusting until his cock was completely buried in Methos. As he panted from the exertion, he gasped out, "You lied to me, Methos. Time and again."  He started to thrust, Methos' blood again providing him lubricant as he continued, "You abused my trust and betrayed your blood oath. We were sworn to each other until the end of time, Methos. Is this the end of time?" he hoarsely demanded as he thrust deeper and deeper into Methos, ignoring the tiny yelps of pain coming from the man contorted underneath him. "You may wish it is by the time I am done with you." 

He rammed hard into Methos with a force that shook his teeth. He felt Methos' struggles and looked down at him. His brother's face was half-buried in the sand, one eye, half his nose and mouth filled with the grit. He pulled hard on Methos' hair, which forced his body to bend back unnaturally. "Are you in pain, brother?" he hissed in Methos' ear. Methos could only spit out sand. "Good." He forced Methos' head back to the sand, and held it there as his hips moved at a frantic pace.

Between gasps, he berated Methos more. "You are not that great a strategist, Methos. Did you know that? All your plans would have failed if I had not come up with a plan of my own. Every single one of them was flawed; I just let you believe your plans were perfect." His hand twisted in Methos' hair and pushed him further into the sand. He could feel Methos struggling fiercely below him, unable to breathe. He leaned down and rasped, "You think you are perfect. That is your problem. You set yourself above the rest of us. Well, that will never happen again. Do you hear me? Never again!" he screamed.

He thrust hard into Methos as he whispered harshly, "Never again.” He thrust a few more times, bringing himself to a shattering climax. Breathing harshly, he shoved himself off Methos, ordering everyone with a look to leave Methos alone.

Nothing. He felt nothing. Staring down at Methos' bloody body contorted on the sand, he no longer felt _anything_. He kicked Methos onto his back, ignoring the gasp of pain...nothing. He had purged his body of its need of this other Immortal.  

"No one is to touch him!" his voice rang out across the camp.

Most of the slaves just stared, horrified, at one of their masters lying bloodied on the ground. Silas looked uncomfortable, but Caspian was grinning wickedly. The show had been a good one.

He glared around at everyone he had assembled. "What are you staring at? Get back to where you belong. Now!" he shouted, sending the slaves running to perform their nightly duties.

He calmly picked up a skin filled with water and cleaned himself up a bit. He arranged his clothes, then sat down by the fire to see what Methos would do. For the first time in ages, he felt alive. He felt invigorated. He hadn't commanded someone like that in years, and it was more precious than anything the bastard had ever done to him. Too bad it was Methos' last performance. Whatever had happened to Methos was irreversible. Methos was no longer part of the Horsemen. Methos was no longer important.

The object of his thoughts finally stirred and pushed himself up on shaky arms. Methos raised his head and locked gazes with Kronos.

Well, he attempted to, anyway. Kronos watched as tears coursed down Methos' face from his swollen eyes. The left one was clamped shut, presumably full of sand. Methos coughed; it sounded nasty.

"I see you swallowed some of the desert. Water?" Kronos asked as he held the skin up to his lips and drained it. He held it upside-down, letting the few remaining trickles run onto the sand. "Oh, look. I guess you will have to get your own, Methos." He smiled as he tossed the skin to the side.

Kronos watched impassively as Methos winced as he straightened. Methos immediately doubled over, choking on the sand he had swallowed. Gasping for air, Methos raised his hand to wipe at his mouth, and stared at his still-bound hands as if he'd never seen them before. Methos raised his head, and his gaze rested somewhere in the vicinity of Kronos' face, questioning.

He rose to his full height, staring Methos down. Methos hadn't spoken yet, and he wouldn't give him the chance to. "I gave you everything you own, Methos. I gave you an honored place at my side, and I gave you the honored place in my bed. But you threw it all away. You did not appreciate what I had done for you. I _made_ you, Methos. And this is the thanks I get?" He waved to the sand where Methos' blood coated it. With Methos' wary gaze on his own, he flicked the dagger in his hand and drove it deep into Methos' chest. Astonishment and pain. What a lovely combination to see cross Methos' face. Methos' head fell back and he dropped to his knees at Kronos' feet.

"As much as I like to see you in that position, Methos, somehow, I do not think I shall have the pleasure again." Kronos kept his own expression neutral as he pulled his sword out.

Methos' eyes were leaking tears, and his head was shaking back and forth slightly. Did Methos think he was going to behead him? It tempted him. Oh, how it tempted him. But killing Methos was not part of his plan. Not now, anyway. "You have gone soft, Methos. Pity." He rammed the hilt of his sword onto Methos' skull, hard enough to crack it. That, added with the dagger still in Methos' heart, would give him plenty of time for the rest of his plan. Methos dropped to the sand, dead.

"Caspian! Silas! It is time." He sheathed his sword and turned to the remaining Horsemen. "Begin tearing everything down. I do not want one thing left that he could use. Whichever slaves cannot walk the distance, kill them. We can waste no time. Quickly!" 

With a leer, Caspian took off for the slave's tents, but Silas remained. Of the three of them, Silas was the most fond of Methos, preferring his friendship to his body. It was something Kronos had always thought was a weakness, and seeing the lost expression on Silas' face, that thought was reinforced. It did no good to care about anyone; they always betrayed you. _He_ would never feel that again, as long as he lived.

Silas looked over to where Methos' body lay and opened his mouth to speak. Kronos stopped him with a raised hand. "He has betrayed his blood oath to us, Silas," he whispered. "That can never be forgiven." His own gaze traveled to Methos' prone body, and he again felt that familiar bond he had felt when they had first laid eyes on one another. One manipulator to another; whatever happened, Methos would always be his brother, in his heart.

Burying those emotions deep within himself, he turned and went to the stables to get his horse. He ignored the sounds of Caspian ordering the slaves to disassemble the tents. He tried not to listen to the bleating of the animals as they were let loose.

It took two days to get the slaves and most of their belongings moved to a safe distance. Kronos sent Silas and Caspian ahead with the slaves, leaving him alone with Methos.

Kronos stood over Methos' body, wondering what had happened to the man he once knew. Methos' skin had reddened in the unforgiving desert sun, but it would heal. He leaned down and kissed Methos' cold lips, then ripped the dagger from Methos' chest. Dried blood and skin came with it, and he quickly cleaned it with some sand. He stared down at Methos, and on sudden impulse, gripped his brother's hair and cut it off. He let the winds blow it from his fingers, scattering it across the desert. Somehow satisfied, he mounted his horse and joined his brothers, not looking back.

He didn't want to hear the sound of hoofbeats riding away from what had been the Horsemen's camp, but it was useless. That sound would be with him for the rest of his life.

Epilogue

~~~~~~~

The hot sun beat down on the dry, desert sand. The lone figure raised his head and attempted to open his eyes, only to clamp them shut against the sun's harsh glare. He automatically lifted his hands to shield his eyes, only to discover they were tied together. He stared at his bound hands curiously, his mind straining to process what it meant. His gaze shifted down to his naked body and coldness seeped through to his bones.

Kronos' harsh voice whispered on the wind, "Never again!" and his body twitched with remembered pain. His thoughts automatically shifted to other things – his own self-defense mechanism. He took a closer look at his skin; it was burned bright red and was starting to peel. Why hadn't he healed? How long had he been out in the sun? He felt lightheaded, but still rolled over onto his hands and knees and attempted to stand. His throat was parched and he could scarcely catch his breath. He staggered to his feet and turned around slowly, taking in his surroundings. Camp. He was at the center of camp. Or rather, what used to be camp. All the tents were gone. The stable had been burned to the ground. The stone structure that held the grain was now in ruins. He took a tentative step and fell to his knees. He stretched his senses, but felt no one; felt no buzz. It was a curious sensation. He had grown so used to feeling another Immortal that the silence was deafening.

Silence. Not one sound came from the immediate area. No sounds, no buzz...gods above and below, _they had left him to die_. He collapsed to the sand, unable to cry, unable to mourn. A morbid sense of relief flooded him; Kronos had not taken his head. He reached up and felt his neck for himself; felt the dried blood caking his skin. His hand reached back and tugged at his hair, fingering the ragged cut. Kronos again, he was sure of it. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. His plan had worked, though not quite the way he had expected. He had expected to lose his head. He had expected to be exiled from the Horsemen. He had not expected...his mind shied away from Kronos' abuse, but his body remembered. Tremors coursed through him at remembered pain; his body bent and used and bleeding...

He ordered his mind to be still. Remembering would accomplish nothing. He had to survive. Survival was all he had left. He knew he would die if he did not get to water soon. He tried to remember which way the stream was. He attempted to check the shadows, but there were no shadows. The sun was directly overhead, making him feel as if he was literally the only one left in the world...

No! Think, Methos, think. Left, it was to his left. But how would he get to it? He puckered his lips and tried to whistle for his horse, but no sound came out. He would have sobbed in frustration, but he had no tears to shed. His entire body felt dried up and used.

Crawl. He could crawl to the stream. It wasn't that far. He got his legs under him and started on his long journey. He had not gone ten feet before he stopped as a foul odor assaulted him. A slave's body was directly in his path, a deep chest wound the cause of her death. The body was still fresh, and his stomach churned, but he had nothing to empty onto the sand. He clutched at his stomach, curled up on himself as he heaved again and again, his own body turning against him.

His stomach settled after what felt like hours. Determined now, he pulled himself to his feet and forced himself to step around the slave's body. He concentrated on one step at a time, one foot in front of the other, until he kicked sand onto another body. His eyes slowly traveled up the body, Micala's body, bent completely backwards. Her lifeless eyes accused him, even in death. She had been his favorite in the last few weeks. He had tormented her, subjected her to the worst humiliation he could think up, had broken her spirit and ability to think for her own. He had sickened himself with his treatment of her, but he hadn't been able to stop. He was driven by Kronos' blindness and by his own need to escape. Her life had meant nothing. None of their lives did. Just his own survival. His stomach clenched again, but he fought off the nausea. Nothing could be changed, now. They were dead, but he was not, yet. He focused his mind:  he needed to get to the stream. He turned and started in another direction, only to be met by the same scene; another slave, her body contorted in death.

His eyes locked onto the ruins of the stone shelter, and he forced his body to make it over there, ignoring the other bodies he passed. He dropped to his knees at the first stone he came upon. He picked it up and studied it; not sharp enough. He chose and rejected fragment after fragment, looking for one to cut his bonds on. He saw the stone he was looking for, and with shaky hands, picked it up. He chose other stones and arranged them to hold the sharp fragment, and he rubbed the ropes against the stone. It barely frayed the tough cord. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. Taking a deep breath, he rubbed his wrists back and forth across the stone edge, cutting into the rope bit by bit.

Waves of heat washed before his eyes, but he kept up the steady rhythm, ignoring the splashes of blood as his wrists were cut again and again. The stone cut through the last of the rope just as the sun was sinking, and he choked on his sound of relief. His arms were shaking uncontrollably from the prolonged repetition, but at least he was free. He rested for a few minutes, then hauled himself to his feet again. He had to make it to the stream, or he would die of thirst. 

His teeth chattered as he slowly made his way to the stream. The warmth of the day had disappeared along with the sun, and he shook with chills. He stopped and looked up with dread. The hill that had seemed so small only days before now appeared as a mountain before him. With shaky legs, he rose to the apex and rolled down the other side, coming to a gentle stop just at the stream's edge.

He hurt. Stones had cut him and bruised him, but he could hear the gentle lapping of the water at the stream's edge calling to him. Pulling himself on elbows and pushing with his feet, he dragged his limp body to the water and plunged his face in, taking deep gulps. The cold water shocked his system, and his stomach betrayed him again. He retched the water from his body, only to stick his face back into the water and drink greedily. He did this until his body accepted the water, and he drank his fill.

He rolled onto his back and shivered in the cold desert air. He had nothing with which to make a fire, and the only clothes were those left on the dead slaves. Bloodied and torn cloth was more than he had, so he forced himself back to what remained of camp and stripped the women. He huddled up against what was left of the stone building, pulled the cloth over his body as best he could, but could not sleep. His damnable mind would not let him rest. He needed a weapon if Kronos returned. He needed one to defend himself against other immortals. He knew he would not rest until he had something to defend himself with. He looked around camp, thinking. He walked to where his own tent used to stand and started to sift through the sand, looking for his hidden dagger. He had buried it deep in the sand years ago, in case the camp was invaded. As he pushed aside a lump of sand, a burned scroll rolled to his feet. He dug further, and stared down in shock. All his drawings, all his writings, had been burned and buried.

The tears he was unable to shed before now rolled down his cheeks. Damn Kronos! Could he leave him _nothing_? Did their years together mean _nothing_? Did Kronos think that he didn't still feel for him? He laughed bitterly; he had felt plenty. Each thrust of Kronos' cock into his body was a sharp pain on his heart. Each word pierced his battered shields until he was left defenseless against Kronos' destruction of him. Brothers and lovers for one thousand years; how could he just forget that?

Why did he think he could? Theirs was a blood oath. Blood oaths were broken only in death. To Kronos, he was dead. He lifted his head and wiped at his face. So be it. He shoved his feelings deep down and continued to search for his dagger. Daylight broke just as his hand touched bronze.

No longer defenseless, he crawled back over to the stone ruins and lay down. But desperately longed-for sleep eluded him. His eyes constantly searched the horizon, looking for Kronos.

Waiting for the next challenge.

Watching for scavengers.

The sun began its ascent into the bright, clear sky: today was Methos' first day of freedom.

The end


End file.
